Life As I Know It
by TWbasketcase
Summary: One Shot After the detention Bender thinks over his life how it was and what it came to be.


**Title**: Life As I Know It

**Author**: TWBasketcase

**Disclaimer**: I do not own The Breakfast Club or the characters.

**Summary**: Bender thinks over his life when he returns home from the detention.

**A/N**: This is going to be a one shot piece.

I've never really been one to follow the norm; I've always done my own thing my own way. Growing up I was quick to learn that life was not peaches and cream, and as long as I can remember I could hear screams, fighting, swearing; and as I grew older I learned to look out for myself and only myself. There were times that I thought I was the only one, like when I seen parents picking up the kids from my grade school…they would hold hands, hug, kiss…I just wanted to stop them all and scream. Scream so loud that the entire world would hear me and understand my pain. But I knew it would never happen that way. So I took my life into my own hands.

When you live your life around constant hate there are times that you tell yourself that you need to get away before you finally snap. During my time I've tried a lot of things to escape life as I knew it. At first I tried pretending I was someone else. Someone who was happy and carefree; I would do anything to be with my friends as often as I possibly could. I would act like superman…almost as if I was untouchable. I would run with the wind and mask every emotion I felt with a plastered smile. No matter how hard I tried to be the happy-go-lucky kid I wanted to be, there was always that accusing voice deep within me that told me that it would never be. It told me I was a lie. It told me I was a fake. After awhile all the pressure and emotions within me bottled up until they exploded; I think it made me even worse off than I already was. So I turned to something else.

Alcohol was my next choice. I drowned the sorrow and clutched the bottle like it was a life line. I would drink myself into oblivion, until I could feel hurt no longer. I would wake up in strange places – beside the tracks, my front lawn, other people's front lawn, other people's houses, other people's beds. The hangovers were the worst; day long praises to the porcelain god and head aches that felt like earthquakes. No matter the consequences though, I always felt it was worth hiding from my problems. As I grew older however, my father's drinking became worse. He stumbled in the house at strange hours of the night, lost job after job, frequently visiting the hospital for liver problems, and worst of all, became aggressive, angry and extremely violent. After watching him destroy himself and our family with a bottle I came to ask myself, do I really want to be that way with my own family some day? Could I truly be turning to the one thing that was causing all the pain and problems in my life in the first place? After awhile the guilt and hypocrisy within me bottled up until it exploded; I think it made me worse off than I already was. So I turned to something else.

A suicide attempt was my third choice. I tried it only once, taking every pill in the medicine cabinet I could find. It left me blurry eyed, sweaty, and in pain. I was trying to get away from pain in the first place and ironically enough I turned to self-inflicted pain. As I sat at the kitchen table I started thinking about all the good things I've done in my life, and the only good person I had – my mother. What would happen to my mother if I snuffed it? She would be left alone in this world with guilt, anger, sorrow, and worst of all my father. She would be beside herself and I would be a coward to add on more pain in her life than she already had. With the last ounce of strength I had I had picked up the phone and called an ambulance. I was so angry with myself afterwards that I tried to take the cowardly way out and that I wasn't man enough to take life as it came. The experience made me a somewhat stronger as a person, but I would never admit to anyone how gutless I was. So I turned to something else.

My next choice was music. I went around the neighborhood and cut enough lawns until I had enough money to buy my own guitar. Of all my escape choices, this one is the only productive and positive thing I tried and continued with. Writing songs and playing until my fingers bled felt wonderful and exhilarating. Sometimes I would be playing in my bedroom and imagined myself on stage in front of thousands of people who admired me for something I did. People wouldn't hate me or hurt me, they would just listen to everything I had to say and I could let out all of my emotions in the most natural way possible. Music is an amazing way to free your mind and let your soul slip away, even if it's just for a little while. Of all my choices this one made me feel a little proud that I could do something right; something good for myself. It's too bad that my self confidence and self pride didn't last long.

When I turned fourteen, the beatings on my mother turned more frequent, and I was at the age where I finally realized I could put a stop to it. At least I tried to stop it. Every time the fights started I would put myself between them until my father turned on me instead. I didn't care how much I hurt as long as my mom was okay. She is a small woman; about 115 pounds, around 5 foot 4. I was much taller and a lot bigger; of course my father had size and power on both of us, but I wasn't about to let him take it out on a petite woman. So I was in a sticky situation, I was getting physically hurt protecting my mother and at the same time it was completely draining me emotionally. What was I to do? Once again I turned to an escape.

This time it was drugs. Cocaine, acid, PCP, speed, hash, weed, you name it. In the world of drugs, things are never as they seem. A good situation could seem bad and in return a bad situation can seem harmless. So I clouded my mind in a fake, hallucinogenic world where the beatings didn't seem as damaging. The drugs were easy to obtain, I lived in Chicago; there was a drug dealer on almost every street corner and they didn't care if they were selling the shit to kid as long as they got their money. I did as much as I could to get the money, but mostly I stole it or stole things and sold them. At fourteen years old I was hooked and my life was going down the drain; and of course where my mind was slipping, so was my school.

I was never a straight 'A' student but I am an intelligent guy. School became one of the worst past times for me and I would do anything I could to get out of it. I mouthed off to teachers, started fights, ditched class, and got suspended, faked sickness…anything. I was in my freshmen year and I was one of the biggest trouble makers in the school. My grades slipped and I ended up in the ninth grade twice. I had every teacher on my ass and it was that year the war with my arch nemesis began – Richard Vernon. I had made a lot of people's lives hell that year and from that year forward Vernon had made it his personal goal to make mine hell right back. It was the second year in the ninth grade that I finally felt my life slipping away and I got off the drugs; well all except the weed that is. I now see those chemical drugs the same way as I seen my suicide attempt; cowardly, gutless, and shameful.

So with nothing left to turn to but my music, and with the assaults at home continuing, I came to a dead end. Playing my guitar was great, but it didn't shield me from the agony. I was sixteen years old and I was as bitter, angry, and tired as an old man. I hated myself more than ever, and instead of looking for escapes I just went out of control. I lashed out on everyone, bullied every kid around me, yelled, insulted, destroyed, and caused chaos wherever I went. To me it was amusing and every bit of it was worthwhile; no one could see my pain and everyone else got to feel it. I made sure EVERYONE felt life as I knew it. I had a new motto – treat everyone equally, like shit. I did not once think about the consequences or circumstances of my actions at all – that is until today.

I approached the front door to our house, there was no glass left in the door just a screen. Our house was falling apart more and more as the years went by and I often wondered when it would just fall down all together. Stepping into the kitchen, I took in its appearance; dishes piled up, food left over from breakfast, and my mother's ironing board with a basket of clothes perched on top. My mother tried as often as she could to keep the house clean, but when you live with a slob like my father who was picky but couldn't for the life of him tuck in his own shirt, it was damn hard. It also didn't help that a lot of things ended up broken day in and day out, so I tried as best as I could to help her out. I grabbed the food off of the old wooden table and dumped it into the garbage. I tied up the bags and brought them out to the garage. I smirked; cleaning is a never-ending thing at my house.

I took the steps up to my bedroom in three's, going just about as fast as my legs would carry me. It was 4:30 now which meant my father should be home from Jerry's (his drinking buddy) any minute and expecting supper. If he doesn't think I'm here then he won't bug me to make it. I turned the handle of the old, cracked door to my bedroom and stepped inside. The walls were painted white, but have since turned an off-shade of yellow. There were dozens of posters covering the walls – and the holes and cracks as well. My carpet – if you can call it a carpet – was thin, musty, and brown. There were clothes, garbage, and burn marks covering my floor. My bed consisted of a mattress, box-spring, a pillow, and an old duvet, all tucked into the corner of my room. I took a large breathe and smiled to myself…this was life as I knew it. Up until today I hated every aspect of my life, and up until today I had no hope. I wasn't expecting the fighting to stop. I wasn't expecting the nightmares to stop. I wasn't expecting the beatings to stop. But I was expecting hope and a chance for a brighter future. Strangely, it was a simple detention that gave me that hope.

I walked to the school today just like I did any other Saturday that I was being punished – which was often – thinking that it was going to be another boring day of back and forth banter between Vernon and I. Little did I know, my life and my attitude were about to change drastically. There were four other kids in there, four other kids I never expected myself to ever talk to unless I was humiliating them. Those four other kids made me realize a number of things today (whether I would admit it or not). They made me understand that there are other people in the world with problems just like me; they made me see that insulting people really doesn't do any better for my self pride; and best of all the made me understand that it is okay to trust people…because they care. Besides my mother, I have never really felt a lot love or care from someone else; it was just non existent, and for the life of me I couldn't trust anyone as far as I could throw 'em. But something happened, I don't know exactly what it was, or when it was, but it opened my eyes. I may never talk to these people again, I may never get a friendship out of them, but one thing that came out today that I am for sure of is some self respect. I came to peace with myself, and I've never felt better.

So what exactly does the future hold? I'm not too sure of anything except one thing; I was going to be okay.

The End


End file.
